


Lovely Lady

by Rattlehead_Rose



Series: Snapshots of a Life Well Wasted [4]
Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Canon Trans Character, Gen, Pickles makes a new friend, This one's actually pretty happy, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, much needed after the last ones jesus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 14:44:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14750864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rattlehead_Rose/pseuds/Rattlehead_Rose
Summary: Pickles finds something beautiful.





	Lovely Lady

**Author's Note:**

> Ages are Weird.
> 
> Pickles- born 1973 (17)
> 
> Pickles goes solo in this fic, but meets someone we see exactly once in canon. See if you can spot him.
> 
> Not crazy about the ending of this one, but ah well.

[Early May, 1990]

Pickles was jostled awake by the bus stopping abruptly at a red light. He yawned deeply, wincing against a crick in his neck. He squinted out the window, trying to determine where exactly they were. The street was crowded with buildings on one side but a little sparser on the other. There was loud music playing somewhere nearby; he could hear it even over the general buzz from the inside of the bus. They passed a street lit up in neon, even in the bright midday sun. 

Last he remembered they were in the middle of a vast flat desert, the stretch of dirt and sand occasionally broken by hardy plants and cacti. It was pretty surreal to see, especially because it was just at sunset, the flat expanse of earth lit up in orange and purple. The woman behind him, who was the nicest person he’d encountered on the bus and who gave him some spare batteries for his walkman, leaned over the back of his seat. “You ever seen the desert, sweetie?” She murmured, quiet to avoid disturbing the other sleeping passengers. Pickles shook his head. She laughed, a breathy sound. “The dirt’s the same color as your hair, baby girl.”

Pickles had smiled a little, pushing down the bitter taste that rose in his throat. Most people had assumed him to be a girl since he left Wisconsin, and he resented them for it-- although, it’s not as if he wasn’t used to it already. If he had a dollar for every time he had to restrain himself from yelling or throwing whatever was in his hands-- every time he sat silent and statuesque through the _girls,_ the _daughters,_ the _sisters_ \-- he’d be able to buy the town of Tomahawk and burn it to the ground.

His comfort during the trip had come in two forms-- his meager tape collection and the music magazines he picked up during pit stops. He paid for them, most of the time, but in every truck stop and gas station he’d found himself inexplicably drawn to the magazine rack, flipping through the glossy pages of long-haired singers and guitarists and drum kits that would put his to shame. Somehow he ended up walking out of almost every stop with at least one magazine, regardless of how hungry it made him. He spent the daylight hours on the bus enraptured by these images that he’d been deprived of. Magazines were hard to come by in Tomahawk, especially for a repressed kid with no money, and MTV was strictly forbidden in the house. Lucky for Pickles, both his parents worked full time jobs and spent a lot of time out of the house at various community gatherings, enrobing themselves in their idyllic suburban daydream.

Pickles watched a lot of MTV in very short bursts.

But even television failed to give him the in-depth information he craved. The videos of the Hollywood Hills and the huge mansions and the venues with mobs of screaming groupies were enticing, very much so, but it wasn’t what he wanted. He read and reread the interviews, poring over the words in an attempt to absorb the abilities of his favorite artists as well as those he’d never heard of. It was the experience, the insight into the life of rock idols and the industry and the artistic process, that he wanted to know. If there was a way, a secret to being a musician, he was convinced he’d find it in those articles.

The bus lurched forward again. Pickles watched the buildings pass, studying the signs for a hint to their whereabouts. He saw the word VEGAS in gaudy blue lettering on a business he couldn’t parse the purpose of, and felt something deep in his chest twist. Las Vegas, a place he’d only heard about as a concept, a dangerous place deep in the desert where anything went but few things left. An unnatural beacon of light in the shadow of the southwest.

He was a long way from Wisconsin-- which was a good thing, as far as he was concerned. But a long way nonetheless.

The bus station was as dirty and crowded as he’d expected, and he bumped quite a few shoulders on his way to the lobby. According to the dullard they’d all agreed to call the bus driver, they were going to stop for at least an hour to refuel and whatnot. Pickles scarcely heard anything else he said as he darted toward the door, an intense urge to explore picking at his insides.

Vegas was almost blindingly hot but strangely dry, meaning Pickles could walk down the street without a sheen of sweat forming between his back and the duffel bag bouncing against it. The side of the road the station was on was less populated but he could hear music and general bustle from what he assumed was the main strip a block or so over. He looked in both directions cluelessly before choosing one to walk in, keeping his hand clenched around the knife in his pocket.

He walked toward the noise, coming across the neon-lit street again before too long. The entire street was crawling with people, businessmen in suits and couples and women in scant amounts of clothing. It looked very overwhelming, especially paired with what must have been millions of blinking lights. Casinos. Could he even get into a casino? Would anyone stop him?

He shrugged, peering around for oncoming traffic before dashing across the road. Even if he couldn’t get in, it was worth checking out.

Smoke enveloped the entirety of the street, accompanied by the stink of booze and sweat and something else revolting that Pickles couldn’t place. Women practically in their underwear— some in even less— stood on the curb, handing out flyers and posing for pictures with tourists. As he ventured further, he passed a couple of massive casino façades, glowing almost painfully bright in the sun. The sounds of slot machines floated from inside, and the prospect of air conditioning tempted him toward the entrance.

The inside was darker and somehow a lot brighter than he’d expected at once. The bright lights of the video slots provided enough light to see but not much else. The brightest spots in the room were the gambling tables, around which scores of adults were gathered to watch. The entryway was sparsely populated, a few people posted by the payphones on the sidewalk and a couple others who appeared to be getting an attempt at fresh air to stave off the repercussions of binge drinking. Pickles passed silently between the groups, plunging further into the casino whose atmosphere stank mostly of booze and cigarettes and expensive perfume.

Most of the people inhabiting the space ignored him, which was probably for the best, he figured. The fewer people that noticed him, the lower his chance of getting tossed back onto the street. And with the sheer drop in temperature since stepping through the door, he wasn’t exactly keen on leaving until he had to. He moved between odd corners of the floor, watching the hypnotically flashing screens of the video slots. He wasn’t even really interested in gambling or what anything meant, and good thing too, because he couldn’t make himself focus on any one thing for more than a few seconds before it changed or something else grabbed his attention. He began to understand why people spent so much money here, it really was enrapturing.

He wandered across the floor this way for a while, before another door with sunlight shining through caught his eye and he made his way toward it. It wasn’t the way he’d come in, but anything was better than staring dumbly at migraine-inducing screens all day.

The street outside this new door was vastly different than the others he’d been on, and almost looked like a street in a normal city. There was a row of stores on either side of him, and another across the street. However, looking further down, he could see big buildings and what looked like parts of a lot of different amusement parks all taken and put down in a row in the middle of the desert. More casinos, his brain told him, pointlessly.

Pickles glanced up and down the rows of shops, taking in convenience stores and tanning salons-- _in the desert? Really?_ Further down was a movie theater and some beauty shops, as well as some unsavory-looking clubs across the street. He actually found himself curious about the inside, but the bouncer outside convinced him to keep walking.

After a short while, he came upon a shabby pawn shop that seemed particularly empty. A particular sign in the window caught his attention, proclaiming “WE HAVE GUITARS” in bright orange letters. He peered inside through the dusty windows and saw a few displayed behind the counter, where an old guy was sitting, staring into space like a dope. Pickles felt his pocket, frowning at how slim his wallet was. Could he really afford a guitar? Sure, he had some money left, but he’d still need some when he got to LA…

_I’ll just look,_ He said to himself, and pulled the door open. The handle was hot from baking in the sun, and a bell jingled above him to alert the man behind the counter. He turned a little to face him, squinting at him over the counter. “Welcome! What can I do for you, young man?”

_Well, that’s a good start._ Pickles walked up to the counter slowly, taking in the dusty unkempt insides of the pawn shop. “Uh, yeah, I’m, uh, looking for a guitar,” He stammered, trying to deepen his voice as convincingly as possible. It didn’t work that well, but the old guy didn’t seem to notice. “Of course! We’ve got a few back here, let me take a look,” He turned in what Pickles could now see was an office chair, ripped and tattered with age, and looked up at the guitars on the wall behind him before standing to take one down. Pickles scanned the row of them before it caught his eye-- a Les Paul, an old one, gold. She was in gorgeous shape, he could see even from where he stood. An image stuck out in his mind, a photo from one of his magazines-- Jimmy Page, from the 70’s. The same guitar he played. It was perfect. That was a fucking rock guitar, it was _exactly_ what he needed.

The old man had turned around by then, holding an older guitar, an Epiphone, maybe. “Well, we got this sweet ol’ jazz box guitar--” Pickles stuck him with a look that could melt glass. Did he _look_ like someone who played fucking _jazz?_ “No.” He spat, and pointed up to the Gibson. “I want that one. The Gibson Les Paul Gold Top, with the humbuckers.” He had no idea where humbuckers had come from, he’d read it in an article somewhere, maybe. In any case, it seemed to impress the guy, and he immediately nodded and turned to put the other guitar back. “That’s a new one, just got it the other day. You sure that’s the one?” Pickles nodded vigorously, unable to keep his eyes off her.

She was even prettier up close, glittering even under the dim overhead lights. He could scarcely touch her for fear of ruining the finish somehow. The old man dug around in a file cabinet for a moment before coming back with a sheet of paper. “Right… Gibson Les Paul, produced sometime before 1958. This guitar sells for an awful lot of money, I’ll tell you what.” Pickles glanced up at him, gut twisting a little. _Too expensive, way, way too expensive. There’s no way._

“But for you, since business’s slow today….” The old man rubbed at his sad excuse for a beard, thinking for a long moment. Pickles stared at him, unblinking, swallowing thickly. He felt like crying. _No matter what he says, it’ll be too much. Guitars are expensive, there’s no way in hell I could--_

“Three hundred. Three Fifty and I’ll throw in a strap and a case.”

Pickles finally blinked, taken aback. _$350? That’s all?_ He fumbled for his wallet, thumbing through the bills he still had. He was down to about five hundred and change. He…. He could live on $200, right? It wouldn’t be that bad. And with the guitar, at least he had a way of making money…

And the guitar… she was calling him. He felt like his life would be over if he had to leave without her. She was too good to pass up. He’d never see her again.

“Okay.” It was out of his mouth before he’d realized he said it. He tugged a few bills out of his wallet and passed them over. The old man held them up to the light before taking them into the back. He returned with his change, as well as a guitar strap and a beat-up old case. After a short lecture about _taking care of it, blah blah,_ The guitar was cased and in his hands and he was ushered back out onto the street once more.

Pickles walked slowly, trying to figure out how to balance his bag against his new, far more precious cargo. His shoulders ached from all the weight hanging off them, but it felt good, somehow. He was getting stronger. He made his way back toward the vague direction of the bus terminal, certain it had been close to an hour. What if he missed his bus? The thought alarmed him initially, but after a moment he couldn’t bring himself to care so much. Definitely worth it. He couldn’t wait for the chance to play her, his fingers had been aching for a guitar since he’d left home.

It was fine. It would be fine.

He found the door to the casino he’d been in easily enough, but found the gambling floor to be not nearly so enticing compared to his newest purchase. Some people gave him strange looks, but, as before, most ignored him. He made his way out the other end of the casino, down the sidewalk, and across the main road again without any trouble. And, lo and behold, the bus was still there.

Pickles hadn’t been so content in a long time. Sure, there was a lot of shit still ahead, he was certain of that, but for the first time in a while, he felt like things were moving in a good direction, one he could be proud of. For now, he figured, he could just be happy that he had some money in his pocket and a lovely new guitar on his back, and he was absolutely fucking nowhere near Tomahawk, Wisconsin.

Good enough.


End file.
